


Wait No Longer

by Val_Creative



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Aged Up Elio Perlman, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bottom Elio Perlman, Consensual Somnophilia, Cute Ending, Domestic Bliss, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Getting Back Together, Graphic Description, Horny Elio Perlman, Humor, Introspection, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mpreg, Older Man/Younger Man, POV Oliver (Call Me By Your Name), Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Protective Oliver (Call Me By Your Name), Reunited and It Feels So Good, Romance, Smoking, Somnophilia, Top Oliver (Call Me By Your Name), Unplanned Pregnancy, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28748292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: Oliver returns to Italy quickly when he gets Professor Samuel's call: Elio is pregnant with his child.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 18
Kudos: 79
Collections: Bulletproof 20/21





	Wait No Longer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StormyDaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormyDaze/gifts).



> Oh... oh I hope y'all like this because it hit me like a MOTHERFUCKER. I WAS ABSOLUTELY AT THIS FIC'S MERCY. I REGRET NOTHING. I actually loved doing this one and please yes tell me any thoughts you have. I would love to hear it! Thank you!

*

All things fade. Oliver didn't know his summer-light feelings were resilient enough for the passage of time.

Three and a half months into his engagement, he finds himself drifting away.

Oliver basks in endless and sloping fields of Italian Riviera conjured from his memory… every floor of the Perlman villa… the blackbird nestled on a Mediterranean pine chirruping as the insects rattled and droned loudly… the grafted peach trees and cherry laurels and maquis… the stone-made pool… the bar-tabaccheria, empty and dark, smelling of ammonia … Elio's wind-chapped lips pursing on a mineral water bottle…

He would be thinking of Elio's lips while fucking someone, unable to get off otherwise. His soft-silk skin. All of that heat and cum-dripping mess inside _his_ Elio when he narrowed and clenched tightly like a sweetly pressured vice around Oliver's cock.

His former fiancée suspects Oliver's heart drifts, too. They won't be speaking to each other again.

Oliver does hope for the best in her life's journey.

It's not long after when Samuel Perlman rings him. He tracked Oliver's new phone number through one of Oliver's colleagues. He would like Oliver to return to Italy as soon as possible, Samuel tells him. _It's about Elio. We know about you both._

Oliver nearly spills his mug of hot freshly brewed coffee all over his dress-shirt. His heart lurches.

_Elio is pregnant._

Samuel Perlman knows certainly that this is Oliver's child since Elio has not slept with another man. Or anyone. He reassures Oliver that no one is angry, and they would like him there for the birth and to discuss the child's future afterwards with Elio.

_Pregnant?_

The word doesn't seem real to Oliver.

He smokes all of the way to B., trying to imagine what possibly to say to Elio. What could be said? Does he apologize? Is Elio unhappy with him and with getting pregnant of all the ridiculous things? He broke Elio's heart—does Elio want him there?

Their goodbye felt like a _Later!_ but translated into a hug. It was too soon. Too awkward and quiet.

It felt a sharp bitter aftertaste on Oliver's tongue. He tasted red-raw skin, biting and grinding his teeth on his quivering lower lip. Oliver fought back tears unsuccessfully in his train-seat, grunting and wiping off his face angrily, riding out of Italy.

_Amor ch'a null'amato amar perdona._

Love, which exempts no one who's loved from loving—those were Francesca's words from the Inferno. Elio recited them once.

Oliver pinches out his cigarette, flicking it into the air and hopping onto the rain-puddle concrete.

The train's engine booms.

He tucks away a book into his carry-on luggage, his head down. When Oliver glances up, there's two people waiting on the other end of the train station's platform. The first one is Manfredi, the driver, approaches a visibly confused Oliver with a hearty greeting, not asking before seizing Oliver's things and heading for the parking lot. And then, there's Elio who hasn't moved.

Tall and thin-limbed and topped with dark, curly hair. Elio's eyes scrunched.

In the veil of train's smoke, Oliver can't tell his immediate expression. But he knows every muscle must be tensed. Elio wears a long, dark wool coat Oliver has never seen before and it's fear gripping through him so suddenly. How angry is Elio?

Oliver remembers anger, but it was directed towards _himself_.

It's a long moment before Elio takes a step, and then another, and he's flown into Oliver's arms. His hands latch on.

Elio sobs, thudding his forehead to Oliver's chest furiously, all of him trembling. Relief blooms inside Oliver. He was so worried that Elio hated him. He doesn't. He doesn't because Oliver knows Elio would have glared and cursed him out, scorned him, and isn't.

This feels like home. 

He has come back _home_ to the person Oliver loves most.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't be more sorry for leaving you…" Oliver whispers, hugging Elio's shoulders and kissing into his curls, rocking them slowly. He kisses him over and over on the head. Elio sobs again. Oliver's smiling eyes burn with tears blinking free. 

_"I've missed you so much, Elio…"_

*

Manfredi holds a conversation with Oliver arranged in the backseat with Elio. He clucks away in Italian, motioning. Oliver lets him. Elio's fingers twitch in his. He doesn't know if Elio has gotten any rest in a while but the young man keeps nodding off.

The driver finally rolls up to the villa. Oliver peers out, grinning and eager to stretch his legs.

Elio's parents beckon them in, holding out an umbrella as the rainstorm intensifies. "Mrs. P, thank you for inviting me back," Oliver murmurs, embracing her when she beams and touches the side of Oliver's face _"la muvi stari—the movie star—"_ and wonders how they are so okay with him impregnating their son and tells Elio to slow down as he grabs some of Oliver's luggage.

It's like a whirlwind happening. 

Elio leads him upstairs, slamming his bedroom door like he doesn't care anymore what that implies, rucking off his coat and mauve-colored pullover. Oliver's eyes widen slightly, gazing at Elio's round, huge belly. The **TALKINGHEADS** t-shirt barely covers him. The littlest dimple of his navel exposed. And somehow… _somehow_ seeing that hardens up Oliver in no time.

He allows Elio to roughly kiss him, grasping into Oliver's shirt and yanking. Elio's tongue plunges into Oliver's mouth, mapping him. Oliver groans, trying to take it easy, cradling Elio's head in his hands and slowing the breathless, achingly tender kiss.

They need to have a bit of restraint. 

He knows Elio is wild for Oliver's touch, surrendering to his hormones. He knows. Oliver wants him, too.

Fuck, but, it's _good_ listening to Elio squirm and moan raggedly, teasing him with light fingertip strokes. Oliver backs him to the mattress, keeping his own clothes on. He lifts up the edge of the t-shirt obscuring his view, dragging his palm over Elio's heaving stomach. It's firm. He doesn't know how Elio manages to get around with his overly pregnant belly hanging off his small body. 

Oliver focuses on getting him off, needing some more warmth on his mouth, engulfing his lips down the length of Elio's cock, His lubricant-slick forefinger presses over the line of Elio's buttocks, locating his hole to twist in. Elio swallows audibly. 

By the time he's on the second finger, getting Elio nice and loose, Oliver can feel the pre-orgasmic twitch in his mouth.

He's missed this… the sensitivity…

A glob of hot, runny semen oozes into Oliver's tongue. He treats Elio patiently, waiting for his fill, thrusting and mouthing and licking Elio's cocktip until there's nothing left for him. Oliver sniffs, wiping off his drool-shiny lips. "Elio?" he murmurs, noticing that Elio's eyelids have fluttered shut. Oliver touches one of Elio's knees, gently playing with the dark hairs. "Elio, hey?"

No answer. 

Oliver laughs, deep and low, setting a kiss to his partner's knee. He had the strong impression that Elio needed to conk out.

Most of his baggage ends up kicked aside. Oliver unzips for his toothbrush and toothpaste, and a couple of toiletries. He relieves himself and washes up, combing out his golden-brown hair, brushing his teeth and gurgling on cool tap-water. 

Peeking out of their joint bathroom, Oliver glimpses Elio still deep asleep. He's rolled limply onto his side.

Oliver's stomach cramps. _Right._

He hasn't eaten.

Mafalda welcomes him in the downstairs kitchen, pecking Oliver's cheeks twice and calling him _Signer Ulliva_ like she used to. Oliver accepts a glass of dark red wine, sniffing the rosemary she has laid out. Mafalda feeds him pollo alla cacciatora.

She asks about Oliver's former fiancée, seemingly gladdened when Oliver informs her that he's dismissed the engagement.

"I better check on Elio," Oliver announces after an hour. He glances absentmindedly at his black sports-watch. The housekeeper nods, shooing him away playfully upon hearing Elio's name. They all must know, Oliver supposes bashfully.

He and Elio were never able to keep a _secret_ then.

Oliver returns to the humid-hot bedroom were the fans stutter dead and the windows glimmer fragmented in rain. 

"Elio?" he whispers, placing down a cup of refrigerated water with ice for him. No answer this time either. Oliver seats himself on the edge of the old, creaky bed, letting his eyes roam over Elio's profile. His pillowy, pink lips. Those gorgeous curls spun like midnight moon. Oliver dares to touch, rubbing his fingers over the pale dome of Elio's belly and amazed by how _real_ this is.

He can't believe he's here. This is insanity. This is worth of every second of disbelief and mortification.

Something rigid-hot lodges in Oliver's throat.

Oliver peels off his trousers, his socks and shoes and underwear, crawling onto the mattress. He sidles up to Elio. Their legs nudge. Oliver presses himself against Elio's thin, muscular back, breathing in an odor of grass and sun-warmed peaches. 

Fingers lower between Elio's legs, softly groping him. The lubricant crusts his rim and Elio's inner thighs. He's still loose. Oliver tests this, pushing in his thumb and finding little resistance. That's not enough to satisfy him. Oliver reaches for his lubricant-bottle, coating his fingers quietly and waiting for a response when two of Oliver's dripping-wet fingers work their way inside Elio.

His eyelids flutter, but Elio doesn't move much else. Oliver chuckles, nuzzling the back of Elio's head. 

"Rise and shine…"

Oliver thrusts himself against Elio's bare, skinny ass, lining up and nudging the cocktip to his hole. He sinks in. A delirious noise escapes Oliver. He rocks, going gently further into his partner's body, smushing his nose and opened mouth into Elio's nape.

His hand wanders back to Elio's pregnant stomach, holding him. He wonders faintly if the baby is half-asleep like Elio.

 _Their_ baby.

The reminder ignites Oliver's blood. He picks up momentum. At a particularly hard thrust, Elio clenches and hisses a breath. 

"Morning," Oliver exhales, despite it being noon.

He massages over Elio's protruding navel, coaxing him, worshiping him, as Elio arches uselessly. A small, sleepy whimper. Oliver slows down, burying himself as far as he can go, nearly pulling out and then slamming his hips up against Elio. 

Elio yells out his whimper this time. His hands reach behind him, digging fiercely into Oliver's hair.

"Good boy…" Oliver pants. "You can take it, can't you… you're doing incredible…"

_"Elio, Elio, Elio…"_

Elio's voice sounds wrecked. He chants his own name like it belongs to Oliver, and truthfully, it was once. It still can be.

Oliver cradles Elio's arm to his mouth, whispering _"Oliver…"_ and fucking into a willing Elio until his orgasm crests. It's like holding his breath too-long under the pool's surface. Oliver's head spins. Elio makes a throaty, raspy moan, unclenching and clenching up on the dick emptying inside him when Oliver touches his swollen-red lips over Elio's ear.

"You okay, Elio?" he asks.

_"Mmhm mm."_

"Yeah?" Oliver murmurs, amused.

_"Mhhmm."_

He carefully eases a drowsy-eyed Elio upright. "Here," Oliver urges him to sip slowly from the ice water. "Let's get you cleaned up. I'm gonna run us a shower, okay?" It'll be nice for them… soaping up Elio's dark curls and kissing his neck and adoring him…

Elio's mouth softly scrapes his. _"I didn't cum…"_ he complains.

"You got to cum earlier," Oliver reminds him. He hoists Elio off the bed, grasping his wrists and steadying him. "I didn't. Shh." Elio gives him a furrowed, grumpy look while Oliver rumbles a laugh. He presses their mouths together briefly.

*

Several days pass in a firefly's glow.

Oliver refuses to have Elio stay in Elio's grandfather's room while at the villa, curling up with him at night. He helps with Samuel Perlman's manuscript and offers up his academic expertise since his departure. Mrs. P visits them with a glass of rosatello.

They plan to have summer residents again this year—lawyers and writers and old married couples vacationing who pay for nothing, and wander the grounds and socialize with the other villa residents, and go travel around B. like it's a utopia. They'll do the usual _dinner drudgery_ in the hot summer sun, corresponding with their welcomed and fascinated guests.

Chiara barges in as soon as she hears Oliver returns, babbling away in Italian and gushing over his newest hand-written publication. The Moreschias, three villas down, and the Malaspinas from N. eagerly question when the baby is coming.

Oliver keeps thinking about it. Is he ready to be a father… let alone is Elio ready?

Suppose only time will tell.

He wants to drive Elio out for a little while in Manfredi's car. Just the two of them. Oliver politely refuses Chiara's smiling and enthusiastic offer to bring herself and her sister for company. Having to entertain them will stress not only a very pregnant Elio, but also Oliver. He's fully aware of Chiara's persistent romantic emotions even now. She needs to be let down _again_ … but later.

Elio seems pinch-faced and paler than normal. He grips his belly noticeably. His voice winded. 

There's no playing the piano, or transcribing music, or eating more than a couple bites of his lasagnette. Oliver doesn't hint for sex, despite them having frequent and loud rounds since Oliver got here, worried about how Elio seems bristly with fatigue. 

Hence why they're leaving. Maybe some fresh air away from the villa helps.

Oliver waits with the car-door open, fiddling with his pure gold necklace dangling with a Star of David. A warm, spring breeze gusts against his billowy blue shirt. He rolls up the sleeves to his elbows. The frayed espadrilles expose the rounded ball of Oliver's feet as he paces. He finally notices Elio approaching, and frowns. "What happened to your shorts? 

Elio had been a pair of khaki-green beach shorts, and now he's in longer and burgundy ones.

"Dunno," Elio mutters, burping into his fist. "Had an accident or something."

_Accident?_

He suspects Elio's bladder, which… Oliver understands that is a common problem while having a pregnancy. Or so says the book Oliver intensely memorized over on his train ride in. Not that he's gonna deliberately bring it up to embarrass his partner.

Oliver's fingers seek into Elio's dark curls, brushing them out of his eyes. "You look great," Oliver mumbles, smirking.

It's not a lie. 

He has no idea why Elio has no t-shirts that properly fit him, or why he chooses to wear a t-shirt unable to cover Elio's round stomach jutting out. It's _infuriatingly_ gorgeous. His ass seems curvier than Oliver remembers and tighter in his shorts. Oliver would love to indulge in his ridiculous fantasy of hauling Elio over the car hood and kissing him senseless in the hot gravel path where Anchise can see while gardening. He would yank down Elio's beach shorts to his ankles and fuck him out in the open.

Elio groans, burping again and flopping into the passenger-seat. He looks nauseated.

"Think it's gas," he insists, catching Oliver's wary look inside the car. "It's definitely gas. Club soda at the piazzetta will help."

"Whatever you want, Elio."

*

In the middle of a dirt road, Oliver hears Elio grumble miserably— _stop the car, stop, stop, stop_ —and flings open the passenger-side door. He leans out, vomiting in choked, noisy breathes. Nothing comes up. Elio heaves himself back in his seat.

Oliver tuts, grasping the back of Elio's head and using his thumb to wipe the hot spittle dangling on Elio's lips.

"You're a mess…"

Elio protests, shoving away Oliver's hand and chuckling weakly. The flash of Elio's grin brightens the dark spaces in Oliver. After a moment, it disappears and Elio lets out a sudden yell of effort, closing his eyes and bending over himself.

"What is it?" Oliver asks, now dismayed. He holds his palm against the top of Elio's belly. It feels hard as a rock.

Elio wheezes. "Something's wrong— _fuck!"_ he yells, tensing and inhaling a moan. His legs stiffen. Elio's face darkens to red. "Fuck, Oliver—ah, ahh, _FUCK!"_ He's nearly hyperventilating. Oliver tries to not panic as well, coaxing Elio into a deep breath.

Contractions. It's gotta be contractions.

Oliver hauls himself over the divide between their seats in a half-sit. "I've got you, Elio," he reassures. "You're gonna be alright. Trust me. I want to see what's going on." Oliver slips off the beach shorts, tugging them from Elio's scuffed white sneakers. 

His heart feels like it's pounding through Oliver's rib-cage. 

Elio's leg drapes up over Oliver's shoulder as Oliver lowers Elio's seat flat and arranges his partner. 

He hesitates. 

What looks like a slightly bloody and hairy knob of flesh protrudes from Elio's stretched-wide hole. The contraction ends, making Elio gasp raggedly on his back, and the knob sinks back inside Elio, but not all of the way. Oliver's blood roars to his eardrums.

"Elio, hey," Oliver says breathlessly, petting Elio's leg. "Elio, nothing's wrong. You're in labor. The baby's coming right now."

_"What?"_

"Stay calm. We can do this."

Oliver reaches for the glove compartment, hunting for the first-aid kit. Mrs. P showed him before. Lucky for them, he locates the unopened package of latex gloves. While snapping them on, Elio cries out and quivers, helpless to a new contraction gripping him. Their baby crowns, stretching Elio's rim impossibly wider than Oliver has ever witnessed, its skull almost completely out.

Of all things, Oliver feels his cock twitching to life. He shouldn't be aroused, but he is.

Now's not the time.

"Keep pushing, okay—that's it," Oliver encourages him. "Good boy. You're almost there, Elio."

Elio hisses through his clenched teeth.

_"It fucking hurts!"_

"I know, I know. Concentrate. I'm right here." Oliver keeps Elio's leg draped over him, holding open Elio's opposite thigh.

Elio grabs onto the headrest above him, straining his muscles and pushing, making a guttural sound. Oliver doesn't know how much time should be between his contractions, but they're fast. How long was Elio in labor for? Since yesterday?

When that one ends, Elio thumps his head back onto the car-seat, panting heavily.

"Still think it's gas?" Oliver says dully.

It's faint, but Elio croaks out a shaky laugh warming the inside of Oliver's chest. 

Fuck, he would do _anything_ for Elio. 

Oliver holds up the baby's head with his latex-gloved hands, noticing one of the bloody-fluid shoulders pops out. Everything's wet and slimy in mucus. He's half drunk on the _thrill_ of knowing a little heartbeat. Strong and steady. 

"Elio, listen to me… I need you to push as hard as you can. Give it everything you got, alright?"

A pained nod. 

It's all about waiting now. Elio looks completely drenched in sweat through his **RAMONES** t-shirt, his face a bright, shiny red. He tenses for what Oliver hopes is the last contraction, tucking his chin in and struggling to push through it. 

Elio's mouth hangs open in a silent scream. Oliver recognizes the face. It's the same face under him in the dark when Oliver made love to Elio for the first time, listening to Elio shudder while Oliver's cock plunged into him. He wonders if Elio's mucus-wet, pink hole can feel an orgasm… visibly spasming as he's giving birth to a real human being… acting like a living maw… 

_Shit. Not now._

Finally, their baby tumbles out into Oliver's hands. 

Elio howls out in relief, his voice cracking. He lies down, grinding the heels of his palms to his moistened eyelids. "It's a boy," Oliver whispers, lowering Elio's leg to cradle their baby to himself. He patting his little, fluid-slick back until there's a gurgling squall.

It's music to Oliver's ears.

*

Soon after, nobody notices the afterbirth passing out of Elio or Oliver's stiffy. 

_Minor inconveniences if anything._

A quick hospital trip confirms that Elio and their baby are healthy. Minimal tearing. He needs to stay overnight for observation regardless. Oliver calls up Elio's parents, grinning through his own tears as he hears Mafalda sob out joyfully on their other line.

Elio wastes no time to returning to how the things were, swimming long distances and biking all of way to the pharmacy.

He reads in the back garden, legs crossed, toying one-handed with Oliver's hair. The other man rests his head on Elio's lap. Mrs. P and Samuel Perlman, up on the veranda, coo to their adorably squishy grandson wiggling in his nursery-basket.

"… Why didn't you tell me when you found out, Elio?"

Elio's fingers slow their exploration, digging into golden-brown strands and twisting.

"I didn't know what I wanted to do." He shrugs, nonchalant, and Oliver's pulse quickens. "You said you were engaged… I know you're not anymore, but…" Elio gazes down into Oliver's eyes, pleading. _"I just wanna be with you, Oliver."_

"Hey," Oliver murmurs, kissing his wrist. "I want that, too. I'm glad you did call… I wouldn't have missed this for the world."

The corner of Elio's mouth twitches.

"To be fair, my dad called you."

"You know what I mean."

"You didn't get my dad pregnant. That would be weird."

Oliver smiles uncertainly. He shifts his head on Elio's pajama bottoms, going upright to face his partner. "That would be very weird, I agree," Oliver says quietly, nuzzling his forehead affectionately to Elio's sun-tan lotioned cheek. 

Elio sighs, turning and mouthing over Oliver's peach-pink shirt. His teeth clamp into the fabric, biting softly.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers.

Oliver's smile widens.

"Yes, please."

He gladly wraps his arms around Elio's middle, bringing him in and relinquishing control. Oliver savors the hint of lemonade on Elio's mouth. He arches for a moment, into a devious-looking Elio, feeling his hands running over Oliver's ass in blue jeans.

"Can I give you a baby…?" Elio murmurs, licking over Oliver's bottom lip.

An igniting spark of arousal erupts in him.

Oliver laughs. "You can try."

Elio mocks Oliver's _"you can try…"_ in an exaggerated-deep voice. He rolls them, wrestling Oliver into the high grass. There's no frown to beheld. There's nothing but soft, needy touch and their laughter and the idea of heaven.

Oliver wouldn't mind him succeeding.

*


End file.
